


even in heaven

by owlinaminor



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Compliant, M/M, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-12 21:42:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29766039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlinaminor/pseuds/owlinaminor
Summary: Frodo and Sam, after finally getting a good night's sleep.
Relationships: Frodo Baggins/Sam Gamgee
Comments: 8
Kudos: 33





	even in heaven

**Author's Note:**

> this is not what i expected my first fic of 2021 to be. but i finally watched the lotr movies recently (thanks laura), and... those hobbits sure are gay, huh.

> _The world is a beautiful place  
>  to be born into  
> if you don’t mind happiness  
>  not always being  
>  so very much fun  
> if you don’t mind a touch of hell  
>  now and then  
>  just when everything is fine  
>  because even in heaven  
> _ _they don't sing_  
>  _all the time_

Most mornings, Frodo wakes up and thinks he’s still dreaming.

There’s the mattress under him, yes, soft and smelling faintly of cotton. And there’s the sunlight rushing in through the window, scorching the backs of his eyes at first and then steadying, brilliant and warm. And the warmth beside him, too—limbs curled tightly, a hand wrapped around his wrist. A pulse.

Frodo keeps his eyes shut tight, waiting for it to vanish. He’s lying on a rock crevice, surely, there’s a pebble poking into his shoulder and his head is pounding from too little food. Any moment now, Smeagol will hiss at him. He’ll be up on his feet and stumbling gain, watching the dark clouds gather. Hard to remember what it was like, really, to not be this tired. The way his bones ache, rolling waves of it, as though his body is a thinly-stitched sheet of chainmail that’s been stabbed in each corner, unraveling with each step. Frodo keeps his eyes shut, and waits.

There’s the sunlight, yes. The warmth beside him. And—music? Birds calling out, their tones lower and faster-paced than he remembers from the Shire. Someone nearby starts humming along, harmonizing, and Frodo feels himself rolling slightly, as though another part of the mattress is shifting.

He opens one eye. Sunlight—glass panes in the window, lilies on the shelf beneath it. Birding and, somewhere beyond it, a bell tolling. Frodo keeps very still, waiting for it to fade.

And then the mattress shifts again and Sam is on top of him, his golden curls falling into Frodo’s eyes. His face is thinner now than it used to be—than it should be—deep hollows in his cheeks and a firm set to his chin—but his eyes, those haven’t changed since Frodo’s garden. If there is a rose to be pruned or a sprig to be watered, Samwise Gamgee will give it what it needs.

“Good morning,” Frodo says, and pulls him closer.

_Not a dream,_ he tells himself, as he presses his forehead to Sam’s, soaks in the warmth and the way Sam closes his eyes. _Not a dream,_ as he buries his face in Sam’s chest, next, checks for a heartbeat and listens as it accelerates, then evens out, in time with the birds beyond the window. _Not a dream,_ as he noses up into Sam’s collarbone, presses a kiss to the curve of his neck and shoulder, grinning at Sam’s sharp intake of breath. _Not a dream,_ as he finds Sam’s mouth, finally—and Sam tastes of ripe strawberries and the wine from last night’s celebration, so logic stans that must have been real, too, the food and the dancing and all of their friends safe.

Frodo kisses Sam, and thinks of the Shire. All the places they could do this, in the garden and along the river, tucked into the alley behind the tavern, up on the hilltop beneath the careful watch of stars. And the bed, Frodo’s, it’s not enormous like this human mattress but it’s big enough, soft enough for two.

“Can you believe it,” Sam says, leaning back against the headboard, eyes shining. “We’re going home tomorrow.”

Frodo grins. He likes Sam in the sunlight. It suits him, like a sunflower, like a beacon that needs no fire to catch alight.

“I think, Sam,” Frodo says. “I think I’m already there.”

**Author's Note:**

> the title/epigraph is from a lawrence ferlinghetti poem. ferlingetti passed away this past week, and i highly recommend watching [this video of him reading the poem](https://twitter.com/dusttodigital/status/1364424169983782913), if you'd like to have some Big Feelings.
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/owlinaminor) / [tumblr](https://owlinaminor.tumblr.com/)


End file.
